We’ve all got a wee guy sitting
on our shoulder.

Her wee guy tells her to
have another glass of wine!
have another glass of wine!
one more glass of wine! To help you relax!
(She has to get up for work at 6am tomorrow
morning.)
(Her office is a 25 mile drive from her home.)

Your wee guy tells you to
just take off the ******!
She’s on the pill and
it’ll feel better for both of you!
You can’t remember when you were last tested for STDs and
you’re so drunk that
you can’t even remember her name.

The wee guy on my shoulder
sits with his legs crossed, slit-eyed, and instructs:
“If you’re going to have a Brie toastie for lunch, you must use low calorie bread. Less than 70kcal per slice. No butter. No jam. No pesto. No spread. You don’t
deserve to taste.”

The ‘opportunity cost’ of tasty cheese
is bread like cardboard:
brittle like my bones and
dry like my hair and
lacking.
Which is
exactly how I feel about myself sometimes.

I used to turn my head towards him
and say: “okay, pal, I’ll do exactly as you say!”
Today I said
I should put pesto on my Brie toastie
I have a bit of weight
still to restore and
I really like pesto!

I like
myself sometimes.

So I had a Brie and pesto toastie for lunch and
moved on with my day.